


necrosis

by zeejacks



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Creepy, Dead People, Disturbing Themes, Hurt, M/M, Mutilation, Nightmares, Psychological Horror, Sad Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Serious Injuries, Violinist Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, baz is dead yall, tyrannus - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-02 02:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17879255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeejacks/pseuds/zeejacks
Summary: The dead decompose. And, well, Baz isn’t technicallyalive.





	1. fresh decay

**SIMON**

I couldn’t find him anywhere. I searched the halls up and down, I checked all of our classrooms, I scoured the football pitch, and Baz was still nowhere to be found. It was the third week since I had begun searching for him, and I was starting to tire. There was no more homework left for me to waste time on, so I decided to search the final place I had been avoiding. 

The catacombs. 

I decided against attempting to use a spell for my light, instead going with a simple flashlight. The stone stairwells echoed with each step, filling me with a foreboding dread before I even left Mummers House. The campus grounds were silent, but rather than feeling serene, the emptiness set me on edge. 

The White Chapel was lonely. There had never been any air conditioning in there, and during the day, it was heated by magick. Now, without the presence of the rest of the school, the halls were barren, cold, and unkind. My skin felt alive with unease, and I couldn’t resist glancing over my shoulders. Dim moonlight streamed through the vast and artistic window panes, painting shallow blue across the tile floor and unnaturally contorting the lines of the grand tables. The luminance was just low enough to make me squint, trying to see through the morphed images. The contrast made it more challenging than if there had been no light at all. The doors to the catacombs were impossibly looming, vividly bringing to mind the gates of heaven-- or, more accurately, the gates of _hell_. I reached a hand out to brush the handle, hesitant. It felt as if there was a breath on my ear, whispering just below hearing level. _Don’t._

There was only the deep, desolate darkness when I whipped my head around. 

I had thought that the Chapel’s main hall had given off a vacant feeling, but I wasn’t prepared for the utterly bare tenebrosity of the stairwells and chambers below. Although I had faced life-threatening situations before, the almost unbearable suspense and fear at this forbidden passageway choked me, making my heart clench painfully. No matter how soft I tried to step, I felt like each movement echoed for miles, terrifyingly announcing my approach to anyone (or _thing_ ) down there. 

It took quite a few minutes to gather the courage to make any excess noise. The pure emptiness seemed to have swallowed my voice, my entire body reacting in heart-racing panic at just the idea of using it. 

“Baz?” It came out barely above a hoarse whisper. It felt only slightly easier to breathe, and I started to convince myself that there wasn’t going to be any dark creatures down here (aside from, hopefully, Baz). I repeated, a hair louder each time, until my voice almost reached a shout. Right as I began to escape the clutches of absolute dread, I has brutally hit with a wave of foul stench. 

My whole being wanted to resist the revolting miasma, and I felt the urge to retch. I forced my legs to continue on, the smell becoming mind-numbingly overwhelming, until it was the only thing I could think about. I could taste the rotting particles in the air, and I dared to hold my breath for as long as I could to avoid taking in any more. The deeper I trekked, the more the tight stone walls seemed to suck away all light, and the dizzier the odor made me. I covered my mouth and nose with my palm, to no avail. 

Eventually, the claustrophobic walkway opened into a cavernous room, the weak flashlight unable to illuminate all of the walls, or the ceiling. There were plaques embedded into the bricks that I could see, all labeled with the names of the dead. Briefly, it was less painful to inhale, only for the smell to clench back down on me the instant I stepped forward, stronger than ever. I gagged again, and my eyes involuntarily teared up. The beam of light swung around wildly, catching on a raised tomb on the far side of the vault. Headmistress Pitch. 

Baz’s mother. 

I decided to move toward the grave. The strength of the odor increased imperceptibly, already clogging up every sense I possessed. Through the combination of poor lighting, mild panic, and tears in my eyes, it was hard to see where I was walking. My arm was still raised to protect the lower half of my face, so looking down was even more difficult. My pace quickened with my heart, suddenly feeling an intense urgency. A few steps further, and my feet _crunched_ against an obstacle, forcing me to lose my balance and tumble towards the rough, rocky floor. The pain from my skin being pulled off was on the forefront of my mind for only a split second, as I came face to face with the origin of the putrid stench. An inhuman scream ripped itself from my vocal chords. I pushed away as quickly as I could, kicking and flailing. My foot smacked the shitty flashlight, my vision blinking out and into darkness. Sightless and in unmitigated horror, I found myself alone in the dark with the worst possible explanation for Baz’s disappearance. 

I found myself alone in the dark with Baz. 

\- 

A choked gasp on my lips, I found myself in the dark of my bedroom. Alone. 

Desperately searching for Baz, to feel him, to touch him, to find and trust that he was here and breathing and loving, I swung my arm to his side of the bed. I discovered nothing but the sheet. 

I looked about the room in a panic. It was empty, aside from inky darkness. I looked into the hall, still searching. I squinted my eyes at the thin line of yellow that filtered through the cracked bathroom door. Feeling both bone-tired and frantic, I sloppily jumped out from the covers and approached to the light source. Mirroring the scenes in my sleep, I so deeply wanted to find Baz alive and well, yet I was faced with a suffocating unease and uncertainty. My steps slowed in front of the door, wood creaking loudly beneath my bare feet. I listened closely, and thought I heard a quick inhale. I placed a hesitant hand on the door and pushed slowly. 

“Baz?” It came out rough and quiet, thick with sleep and dread. There was sudden movement inside, my eyes failing to see details in the sudden assault of light. 

“Oh, fuck, Simon,” he said, his tone strained and fearful, “please, please, don’t look--” 

Baz was looking at me over his shoulder. He cradled his hand against his chest, facing the mirror. In his panic, he pushed his hands towards me, as if trying to placate me. Before I could say anything, ask anything, I saw it. His hands. 

They were facing me, one open and one a closed fist. The open one looked wrong, sending chills down my spine and making my throat water with the impulse to vomit. 

The other held two fingers.


	2. rigor mortis

**SIMON**

“Oh my god,” I said, hollowly around my own tongue, “Oh my god.” 

Getting a better view of Baz, I tore my eyes from his hands. Disgustingly, I noticed more-- the veins on his face and neck protruded, sickly and violet. His eyes and nose were running constantly, just too much and too red-tinted to be considered crying. He was paler than ever, his once warm, tan brown skin a few shades lighter and thinner. He was mimicking my expression of horror, more disturbed at me than at his own disfigurement. I took a halted breath in, and was met with a vile metallic and moldy sweet taste. My own hands came up to guard my mouth and nose, and I gagged loudly. Lurching towards the sink, Baz stepped far from me. His face was the picture of self-loathing and pain. 

“Simon,” he choked, “Simon, I’m so sorry, I tried to hide it.” I was only half listening, distracted by the heaving of my stomach. I ached for his comfort, but both of us were too unsettled to touch. Unsteadily, I rose and gazed at him in the mirror. He was revolting, but I loved him, all bloody snot and broken flesh. I turned and faced the real Baz. 

In the silence of the early morning, I reached out and gestured for the damaged hand. He looked uncertain, hesitant to make me sick again. A rattling exhale sounded from his chest as he anxiously set it in my palm. Looking down, I squashed the urge to retch. 

The skin was dry and peeling across his palm, stretched unnaturally over the cross-shaped scar. Like a reminder that, in this appalling scene, God was still with us. Areas where his veins were noticeable were tinged blue, and his muscles looked tight. His thumb, pointer finger, and middle finger all bent stiffly, with the same violet hue. The almost-black skin around where his ring and little finger should have been was paper-thin and torn, like the tiny limbs had simply been pulled off. Connecting tendons and muscle were the only visibly wet part of his body, excluding his face, and they had an unclean rip. I wanted to hold his hand, to comfort my love in any way, but was afraid of hurting him further. I tightly shut my eyes and let it drop. I grabbed him close and held him. 

“Bazzy, what’s going on?” I pleaded. He looked conflicted. 

“I don’t… I don’t know.” I pulled back and looked at him, doing my best to avoid catching my eyes on his right hand. He didn’t often admit to not knowing things. 

“Can you fix it?” My words came out halted, and he gave me an odd face. 

“What do you mean?” Baz still had a fearful, emotional tone, and it beat me up inside to listen to it. 

“With magick.” He was quiet for a long moment, and I would normally let him be, but I was freaked out. I held him tighter to communicate my impatience. 

“I can’t do it anymore,” he said hurriedly. “I mean… It’s gone, Simon. My magick doesn’t work anymore.” There was a definite despair in his face and words. 

“What? That’s not true,” I countered, not wanting to believe what he said. Baz avoided my eyes. He nodded solemnly. 

“It is, love,” it came out sad and soft. “I’ve been using spells to hide _this_ , and they’ve been getting weaker and harder to cast. That’s why I’m… that’s why I’m here, and not in bed with you.” 

I set a hand on his ill face, ignoring the damp and cold skin, the sunken-in cheeks. The vivid colour in my flesh was a stark contrast to the cool tones in his. The warmth from my touch made him flinch, just the tiniest amount. 

“Nothing’s working anymore because-- because I’m dead, Simon. I’m dead.” I wanted to say, _no, Baz, you are **alive**_ , like I always told him, but the evidence was overwhelming. Instead, I lead him back to our bed. We laid side by side without speaking, and I pretended to fall asleep. Baz pretended, too. 

Neither of us moved when the sun came up, but I was glad. I thought that maybe, if I faked a dream for long enough, I would wake up to find that last night had been a dream as well. That the disturbia of Baz’s body would be nothing but a gruesome apparition from my mind, and that I would open my eyes to see him smiling at me, blood pumping in his veins and a carefree love in his laugh. On top of that, I was afraid. I couldn’t get the idea out of my head that, if I jostled Baz too much, he would simply fall apart then and there. Littering our bed sheets with his limbs and liquids, skin and bones. 

When I finally did arise, the hopeful wish was crushed, but the fear wasn’t. 

Without the ability to keep secrets anymore, the days with Baz became distorted. Penny tried her best to spell his fingers back, but those two would stay still and numb, unknowingly catching on doors and corners like nails that were too long. They always ending up detaching, to be discovered lying about the house-- a sick twilight zone episode. He no longer faked eating or sleeping, staring blankly ahead as he laid in bed all night. His eyes and mouth and nose would leak out his remaining body fluids, and it took him a while to notice each time. His voice grew scratchy and hoarse, drying out the same way his taught body did. He constantly rubbed his eyes, scratching at the deeper and deeper dark circles that formed. The lividity worsened, leaving him a poorly reanimated carcass, all unsettling greys and lurid blues and unhealthy greens. 

The most humiliating, for him, was the smell. We did our best to cover it up, using spells and perfumes and clothes, but there was always a seeping amount that spread across the house. Although she promised to make almost daily visits to help, Penny planned to move out. It was at that point that, no matter how much I wanted to be there for him, I agreed that it was best for Baz to stay on the couch during the night. Alone. 

I didn’t mention that falling asleep in the same bed as him terrified me. 

He still played his violin. In all of his fury at our helplessness, and his increasing difficulty in expressing it, he found an outlet in the strings and bow. Many of his older pieces were melancholy-- music from our school days. More recently, he had been playing happier material. Love songs, cheerful melodies, and sweet tunes, which I much preferred. I’m not sure if he was aware of the mood change, and how it correlated with our relationship, but I didn’t mind either way. I let him play to his heart’s content, feeling pleased enough to sit and listen without thinking. 

The past few weeks, however, had taken a darker turn. All minor keys, haunting lilting melodies that seemed to lodge into my brain and set a paranoid mood over my every move. Even before the bathroom in the early AM, I had noticed the disturbing shift. Baz spent a lot of time now, our bedroom door closed behind him, plucking at the strings in otherwise unsettling silence. His songs would play softly in my head as I watched him deteriorate, like an unhelpful soundtrack. 

Busily ridding the apartment of any clumps of hair and skin, I paused to gaze at the bedroom door. As usual, Baz was behind it, hiding his frail body and venting in his macabre notes. I listened and looked as the lighting slowly lowered, the sunset bathing the furniture in deep reds. I collapsed on a chair, still facing our bedroom. It had only been about two weeks since I found out, four since the decay first started, but the way we all seamlessly adjusted to the uncanny reality made it feel like years. I was only a few feet from the door, but I felt like I was an unimaginable distance away from who had once been the love of my life. Even though the one I cared for most was in the room over, suffering, _I_ felt like I was in complete solitude. Entirely alone in the dim world of reds and oranges, a wad of dead skin and dead hair in my fist. I covered my face with the other hand, a sob stealing its way from the clenched muscles in my throat. 

A few minutes later, I returned to my task of scanning and cleaning the apartment. I decided not to comment on how the violin had stopped, or the silent shadow breathing against the opposite side of bedroom door. 

It stayed there, still, until the sky grew dark, and I could no longer see it at all.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: @bazstastic


End file.
